The obituary was simple and to the point. Joseph “Joey” Lopes had died in West Sacramento on August 10, 1997, at the age of 66. The obituary also mentioned that Joey had fought professionally 92 times, with 62 wins, 24 losses, and six draws. It listed the cause of his death as complications from Alzheimer’s disease.
When I put the newspaper down, I suddenly found myself recalling the one and only professional prizefight I have ever attended. It was in the late 1950’s, probably 1957 or 1958, and it took place at the old Memorial Auditorium in downtown Sacramento. I was only 11 or 12-years-old at the time and had no interest whatsoever in boxing. But a good friend of mine had absolutely insisted that I go along with him and his brother, and when I asked him what the big deal was, he simply said, “Because Joey Lopes is fighting, stupid.”
“Who’s Joey Lopes,” I asked him.
“You don’t know who Joey Lopes is?” he asked me, his mouth wide open in disbelief.
“Nope,” I admitted, “I’ve never heard of him.”
“Well,” said my friend with great emphasis, “Joey Lopes just happens to be the greatest fighter in the whole world. And he’s from West Sacramento!”
When fight night rolled around, I found myself being pushed and shoved towards my seat by a packed house full of noisy and excited humanity. It was a hot summer night and many of my fellow boxing fans smelled of perspiration, Old Spice cologne and alcohol. Most of them also didn’t seem to much care about whether a 12-year-old kid like me was going to get trampled to death or not. Their blood was up, and they were in a very big hurry to get to their seats before the main event began.
The inside of the auditorium itself was dark and smoky, and it took my squinting eyes a few minutes to adjust to the lack of light, but right in the center of the building was an elevated boxing ring, surrounded by colorful ropes and brightly illuminated from high above.
As my friend went on and on about what a great fighter Joey was, and how he had even once fought for the world championship in Chicago, and how he wasn’t scared of anyone alive, and how he was going to wipe the floor up with the guy he was fighting that night (whose name I have long forgotten), I found myself getting caught up in all the excitement going on around me. Men and women of all ages were shouting out bloodcurdling encouragement to the last of the preliminary fighters, others were shadow boxing with their neighbors, and some were even acting like they wouldn’t mind jumping into the ring and getting it on themselves.
Then the real bedlam began. The main event was announced, and Joey Lopes confidently, almost causally, stepped into the ring. My friend was standing on his feet, screaming at the very top of his lungs. Everyone around us was doing likewise. It was so loud my ears began to hurt. I couldn’t believe that someone would actually want to be the center of that much attention. But I could see that Joey Lopes was enjoying it, smiling and nodding to his many fans. I just couldn’t get over how calm he looked. There was absolutely no fear in his brown, handsome, boyish face. I was also surprised at how small he was. He couldn’t have weighed more than 130 pounds. But as I carefully watched his every move, it was obvious even to me that Joey Lopes, from West Sacramento of all places, was definitely in his element.
The fight itself was almost anticlimactic. Although I didn’t know it at the time, most of Joey’s best fights were already behind him. And he had been in the ring with all the greats of his day; Bassett, Brown, Elorde, Jordan, Carter, Saddler. He had taken them all on, never ducking anyone. When he decisioned Sandy Saddler in 1955, Saddler was the reigning featherweight champion of the world. In 1957, Joey was ahead on points against world lightweight champion Joe Brown after ten grueling rounds in Chicago, and in 1961, long after his prime, he lost a close 15-round decision to junior-lightweight champion Flash Elorde in Manila before a crowd of 40,000 screaming hometown fans.
The one and only night I got to watch Joey Lopes box, I’m afraid I was more interested in the pageantry of the event than the actual fighting. But I can still clearly recall how graceful and gallant Joey was, and how effortlessly he slipped most of his opponent’s punches. Great defensive fighters were a rarity, even back in the late 1950’s, and Joey was acknowledged as one of the very best. He wasn’t afraid to mix it up, either, and after the fight, I can remember my friend’s older brother telling us, “You always get your money’s worth when Joey Lopes fights, even when he loses.”
A boxer’s life is harsh. Shattered dreams are much more common than victories. But for Joey Lopes, boxing helped him mature into a good and caring man. He got to see the world and gain confidence in himself. He became poised and successful. He was proud that his hometown was proud of him. And he was courageous to the end, even when the days of glory were gone and his thoughts were no longer his own.
“His last fight turned out to be his greatest,” his sister told me. “He wasn’t able to beat Alzheimer’s disease, but just like he did every time he climbed into the ring, he fought his heart out.”